


Love Me (With Every Beat of Your Cocaine Heart)

by SouthernBird



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe, CocaineLord!Kuro, Implied Sexual Content, Implied Violence, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Sunset Boulevard AU, dancer!lance, kuron!shiro, stripper!Lance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-05
Updated: 2018-03-05
Packaged: 2019-03-27 06:45:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13875378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SouthernBird/pseuds/SouthernBird
Summary: He’s a tar black soul, more cigar smoke that is only drenched by his thirst for grander liquor than he is a man, but Lance can see it, the swirling of calculation that comes from a tyrant of drug trades and murders.Cognac and lilac muddle together in an interwoven mess of afterglows, same as the hands, leather clad and authoritative, come to wrap around his petite waist.





	Love Me (With Every Beat of Your Cocaine Heart)

**Author's Note:**

> This snippet is inspired by 'Off to the Races' by Lana Del Ray that may end up influencing a larger story that I would like to flesh out for this year's Shance Big Bang. I really hope I can keep it up as I'm really enjoying playing with Kuron!Shiro and Lance's dynamic in this AU. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

There are reflections of Los Angeles’ golden hour splayed in fractal rays in the glass room he stands in, reminding him of the splendor of what sheer dumb luck can flourish forth. 

 

A wrinkle of his nose, and Lance smells the light waft of chlorine that clings to his skin, all warmed from lazy strokes in the ripples of the swimming pool that glimmers blue just below their window. He’s stunned, a dancer from Vegas that knew more of wrapping his fingers around the steel of poles and weighing the heaviness of strangers’ heat on his tongue, standing there in a residence of riches that could buy the world twice over if the man that stands behind him were just a bit more sinister. 

 

He’s a tar black soul, more cigar smoke that is only drenched by his thirst for grander liquor than he is a man, but Lance can see it, the swirling of calculation that comes from a tyrant of drug trades and murders. 

 

Cognac and lilac muddle together in an interwoven mess of afterglows, same as the hands, leather clad and authoritative, come to wrap around his petite waist. 

 

“Why aren’t you getting dressed, baby boy? Don’t like it?” And, God, if He listens, is an omnipotent gambler, a tactical mechanism of the methodical that is as thoughtful as the chain on the man’s neck. To think, months ago, Lance’s thighs wrapped around cold metal now wrap more around sides of hips rock mercilessly to a pounding, merciless beat. 

 

Gone is the thrumming bass, the pulsating tempo of music that guides in his limbs in provocation; in its dismal place is a scattered tone of expletives and headboard bangs. 

 

“It’s red,” Lance states plainly, eyeing the skin-tight vestige of all his man’s desires that hangs from the small toiletry closet. It’s a simple affair, a sewn piece to accentuate those strange curves he developed along his hips and waist, but the dress is red, red, red, and Lance is blue, just wants blue, a color of calm and peace that is a void of a craving he cannot satiate. 

 

It’s the swimming pool again, the fluttering swarm of water along his arms as swam and swam until he could go no more, like a pet trapped in a cage of its own volition while his owner’s sight clings to each swallowed movement. For all the crass, bratty mannerisms he has picked up on the other side of the social ladder, he once longed for the placid rhythm of waves along shorelines where no one else could be found. 

 

(There was once a picture in the dressing room he kept at his station, a postcard depicting Varadero Beach in faded, wrinkled dreams. It’s gone now, ripped in half the night he left the hopping strip bar along the simmering Vegas Strip to step into a vintage Aston Martin and into the collar that snapped right around his neck.) 

 

There’s a suck of teeth, canines along the vein of his neck with a sigh that is so ostentatiously annoyed that Lance’s nerves fray and his bones clatter, “red? Darling, red is so beautiful on you… just the sight of you in it will make me a happy man— it reminds me of your passion, your ferocity. I know them as well as you do.” 

 

And his man, older and wiser, is right, but that dress is red, not blue, not the life that he buried with seashells and sea glass when he went looking for a path of his own far from the innocence of summer days splashing with the fishes. 

 

Innocence is a palpitating pulp of a lonely thing, tarnished and rancid like month-old raspberry jam splattered across hotel room walls from thrown jars. Lance knows it, knows it as well as he knows of cocaine lines and plucked rose petals. 

 

“I know…” he murmurs with a glance of his blue eyes upon the man’s reflection, all black and white and scarred, raising a hand back to pet along a growing undercut that is starting to become unkempt from their time lazing about here at the Chateau Marmont. It’s wonderful, yes, and the sex is burning and so good, and the pool is cool, but there it is, the hands possessively gripping along the sharp ends of his pelvis, the eyes that roam his bare body in a greedy trail of _his, all his._

 

There is a small, rebellious voice that echoes in chamber locked behind iron chains, one that clambers against the doors in rowdy begs for the former dancer to run, run far, or just go home. The rest though overcasts a bleaker shadow that imposes like a concrete prison that sits as solitary as a cell, a Ricker’s Island bastion that quiets that part of him that would flee like a hummingbird from the claw of a predator. 

 

No, he stays, content in some sick way with a man that dotes on him, with a man that would never harm him, never, even if he has a temper that flares like a burdened snake, that roars like a ravenous lion when a deal that strives for more of the coins gold falls rotten. 

 

There are kisses along his neck now, an apology that was assuredly coming with the frown that sunk down along the corners of Lance’s pouty lips. His man’s lips are chapped and small, but they have such adoration and desire that it’s hardly an error of beauty. Hell, his man might be older, the grays prickling at the edges of his hairline and at his bangs, but he’s handsome, a poisoned Adonis that is as much Lance’s as he is his. 

 

“Next time, blue, I promise,” and it isn’t so much a promise as it is a blood pact, an oath cut with the tip of a knife into the meat of his thighs while leather teases lower, glass mirror revealing all.

 

A blood bath it would be, the boy thinks, if they would ever be torn apart, true loves that aren’t locked by sweet odes of vernal bliss, but by the darker, more violent throes of passion that do not dim with age that surely weathers the seasons before an eternal winter settles. No, their love is whiskey sharp and tobacco smolder, is glitters of coin and join of intimacy. 

 

“Blue,” Lance utters with a nod, fingers trailing into what black is left of his man’s hair, “and only blue, Shiro?”

 

Like the sunset along the boulevard, Shiro’s smile is tight, yet genuine, wordless with only the bustle of Los Angeles traffic drifting from the open balcony the composition between them. 

 

There’s a lack of certainty that pops like the bubbles that foam from popped champagne bottles, and while Lance knows devotion is an absolute, a key to a lock to chain this life of glamor and danger to his angles, but Shiro is a name given, but never confirmed. 

 

After all, his bad man goes by names that are far and few known, carefully plucked from a repertoire of single handedly crafting an empire of marketing of substances illegal. Shiro is a demon, must be, with his luck and his spite. Still, Shiro is his, a softer persona of the beast that would tear a man’s head clean off his neck with his own bare hands should the anger sing high and true enough like a showgirl hitting those notes from the trill of her throat. 

 

The promise, hollow at the heart of it, makes Lance wish to the reflection of his dolled up face, pout lacquered with lip gloss and lashes curled with mascara, that he missed Vegas more, missed the rough asphalt under his knees, missed waking up in a dark corner of somewhere after being slipped something probably illegal just for a cheap thrill for the fucker that did… 

 

“Don’t drift from me,” Shiro murmurs, a bite, a nip of a tone that is stagnant in its intoxication, “I don’t like it when you do.” 

 

There’s that threat, but Lance at least can settle more in those arms and know the sinew of hard muscle that lies under the softness of skin would never constrict in a fist or a backhand along his face. No, that temper is deadly, an insanity of loss of rational connection that is a devil prowling the earth— but it is never directed to his baby, not to his precious gem that will sit pretty in his lap while the man sips on his cabernet sauvignon in the Bar Marmont in the evenings and sizzling jazz glowers along the yellow lamplight

 

“I don’t like it when I do either,” Lance admits, dropping all the crass and snark that boils under his ribs at the edge of the bathroom, leaving his bare with only the fire of his heart burning him into a charred emulation of a bad man’s penniless harlot. 

 

Then, a growl, lower than the pit of hell with more gravel under spinning tires than simpering voice, emits in a rough warning as fingers dig deeper into Lance’s sides—. 

 

“Then _don’t.”_


End file.
